


Yellow Wellies

by jmflowers



Category: Emmerdale
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 14:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17469332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmflowers/pseuds/jmflowers
Summary: A pair of yellow wellies live in their wardrobe.





	Yellow Wellies

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently the only things I can write lately are in second person, so... here 'you' go. This is definitely not and will never be canon in the slightest, but stupid yellow rain boots have been in my head since December and my Canadian brain greatly enjoys the word "wellies".

                There are a pair of bright yellow wellies in the back of the wardrobe that you didn't buy, the kind with the fancy brand name printed across the front that always seem far too expensive to rationalize for stomping through muck. They sit neatly in their box, brand new and untouched and still shiny with that fresh-from-the-shop polish on the rubber. When you open the lid to peer inside at them, they smell of being little enough to hold your mother's hand, of stomping through puddles on the way to school, of long distant memories you thought were lost. It's near enough to Christmas that you tuck them back away, pretend you didn't see them, smile to yourself when you imagine feigning surprise as you unwrap them. They're too much, more than you really need. But then, that's sort of how she does things, isn't it?

                Christmas morning comes and goes, presents unwrapped in all the haste and excitement of two little boys just beginning to grasp what the holiday means. You herd them outside to ride tricycles and burn energy and sneak flirting glances across their heads. You forget all about a pair of bright yellow boots and let yourself get swept up in the magic of the day, of the wedding, of the way her hand trails across your shoulders and down into the small of your back. You lose yourself in the tingles that she can coax to the surface of your skin.

                January brings with it a whole slew of other things more deserving of your attention: the way forgiveness lifts the weight from her shoulders, the sharp searing pain of glass breaking through skin, the desperation you never knew until you loved a son. You let your thoughts wrap whimsically around the ring now taking up residence on your left hand, spend quiet evenings on the couch staring at it as your body begins to heal. You dedicate yourself to urging Noah closer, to finding activities that quench Moses' constant need for movement, to holding Johnny just that little bit tighter while he lets you. You smooth the furrows from her brow the first time her fingers touch your puckered skin, kiss the worry from her eyes that the scar means anything more than the concrete, factual truth.

                By February you are feeling more certain on your feet again. You dedicate an entire day to relearning the contours of her body, of all the places you alone can touch, of all the things that make her quake beneath your fingertips. You gather strength from the way she keens against you, still desperate for your attentions, still attracted to you despite the changing roadmap of your skin. You confess your fears in whispers within the safety net of darkness, trapping them beneath the duvet and her certain hands. She kisses you until they weaken, murmurs promises that are reserved for solely you to hear. She kisses the knuckles of your left hand, lips pressed against the stone, and reiterates her desire for forever. Your heart doesn't give you much choice other than to believe her.

                March heralds in the final month of your suspension. You make the most of quiet days, eager to jump back into chaos and distraction and being needed by something more than little humans. You fall asleep with veterinary magazines still clutched in your hands, wake up swearing you can smell hay. You organize and reorganize Pearl's desk, the storage room at the surgery, the kitchen drawers, until everyone looks like they might want to strangle you just a little bit. So you opt instead for carting Moses and Johnny off to soft play, or the library, or the park - anywhere that will momentarily stave off the pulsing giddiness burning in your skin. You have been without for so long that the final stretch feels like an impossible hurdle to cross.

                But you do and the suspension ends and suddenly you're breathing again. You realize it on a sunny afternoon, when the boys are not yet home from nursery and your phone has a notification from Charity about something or other to do with tea and you're in the middle of running ops on a silly little Chihuahua who thought clumping litter was a snack, that everything feels exactly right. That all the pieces of your life that you needed to fit together have as seamlessly as if the universe itself carved the edges of the puzzle. For the first time in a year, in maybe your whole life, a warm sense of belonging washes over you.

                The belonging feels more like the cold of half three when your phone rings in the middle of the night, tugging you from dreams and strong arms. You shrug into a jumper and slip from the bedroom, those bright yellow wellies long ago slipped from your mind. The call takes you up a winding road to a poorly lit barn and a sheep in distress and a farmer way, way beyond his depth. It keeps you there until the sun has risen in the distance, the sky painted in long swipes of brilliant pinks and blues and smudges of purples. You stroll down the path with your head tipped back, breathing in a crisp April morning and the reaching tendrils of a spring to come. You don't see her, at first.

                She is a warm thermos of tea, leaning against your car with that tentative smirk already toying at her mouth. As if she knows she's done good but is never quite sure until you tell her. She is long curls still slightly tousled from sleep, brushed back from her face with a wind-nipped hand. She is a slow kiss while your fingers tug at the front of her jacket, drawing her in, drawing her closer, impossibly lost in the way her lips move against your own. She is a smug laugh when you part, covering up that brief moment where she wasn't quite sure if she'd overstepped.

                It all comes rushing back in an instant when you take her all in; the box in the back of the wardrobe, that never-been-worn smell, the far too expensive tag. You remember the confusion of months earlier, when you hadn't found them haphazardly wrapped and shoved beneath the Christmas tree. No, those bright yellow wellies were never intended to adorn _your_ feet.

                She blushes when you cock an eyebrow, all the bravado of before rushing out of her. She mumbles something incoherent, a jumbled mess of reasons that wouldn't make sense even with the help of scissors and paste to fit them all back together. But you know her, know her code, know that she bought these daft things more than four months ago for a day just like this one, when she could stroll across a farmer's field with a warm drink and make you smile. She's succeeded, which pulls her eyes back to yours, that signature wink sending a flutter through your chest and the warm feeling of belonging washes over you once more.

                Because she is bright yellow wellies. And you? You're in love with her.


End file.
